by Jo Sparkes
She had never covered her eyes at a game, not even when the Hand of Victory faced Skullan teams. Now only clenched fists kept her from doing so when Drail hit the ground and Tryst smashed against the turf in a puff of debris.
Adeena gasped; Jason hissed through his teeth. The Defense Master grabbed her arm, either to hold her back or stop himself from racing across the field.
Relief flooded through her veins when Drail rolled upright. Surely Tryst would too, as soon as he caught his breath. Likely he was winded.
Focused on the Prince, she didn’t see the Terrin’s fall.
And then, as the other gamesmen stilled, as Drail knelt by the prone Terrin and Tinge hurried out to join him, she saw Jason race across the field toward Tryst.
Marra ran.
Flinging herself down beside him, knees smacking painfully on the ground, she hesitated a blink of the sun. And then reached to feel his pulse.
Tryst moaned.
“It’s over, my Prince,” Jason whispered.
“Did we win?”
Releasing a long held breath, Marra began to check his bones for damage.
Kirth waited as Tinge squatted beside the fallen gamesman. She could see Murgar’s chest laboring to breath.
Others surrounded them. His Terrin teammates, Drail and his men, Qwall. Marra must be lost in their midst.
“Lady,” Qwall rumbled softly. “What is wrong with this one?”
Tinge plucked a fluffy feather from Murgar’s chest - a feather atop a sharp barb. And despite the heat, a chill shot down Kirth’s spine. She’d never seen such a thing, but could guess what it meant.
Looking across the field she saw the priests, stock still and eyes riveted on Murgar.
“Qwall,” Kirth said. “Fetch the High Priest and his second.”
And when the Terrin only gaped at her, Tinge glanced up and nodded.
Qwall left. And returned with the two priests. Kirth noted how he ushered them, as a sheep dog would sheep. Though the village leader never physically touched their robes, the threat was there.
The priests bristled with indignation. Beneath that seething emotion, however, Kirth sensed a profound…nervousness.
“Lady.” The High Priest bowed. “You dare summon me?”
“To help your champion.” Tinge’s steady gaze seemed to unnerve the Terrin. Beneath his robe his body shifted from one side to the other - like an apprentice caught with a failed brew.
He shifted more rapidly as Tinge displayed the dart.
“Do you have an antidote?”
“You cannot….”
“We do,” the second priest told her, and hurried away.
He returned moments later, bearing a tiny vial. Stooping, he tilted the contents into Murgar’s mouth, tapping the glass bottom to be sure it emptied, and lastly rubbed a smear around the swollen dart wound.
Kirth sensed the High Priest swell with anger. His tongue, however, produced nothing more than a steamy hiss.
Which was just as well. Looking at the surrounding faces, both skin and Terrin, she doubted anyone would heed him.
Fortunately, Murgar survived.
His breathing steadied, his tremors ceased. Tinge sat back, wiping her wet forehead with her paw, before turning her gaze to the High Priest. “Why did you do this?”
His mouth spluttered, seeking a defense. “I would not….”
Qwall’s paw snaked out, yanking the High Priest’s hand, turning it over. Within it lay some sort of thick reed.
Kirth did not recognize it - but obviously Qwall and the others did. “A reed gun,” Tinge told her. “The weapon used to deliver such darts.”
The High Priest snatched his paw back.
“I am the High Priest of Zaria! I obey Yute’s commands!”
Kirth felt the hesitation around her. While Tinge remained unimpressed, the male Terrin were. One must be careful questioning a priest, she realized, lest one question his god.
“FIVE SPOT!” shouted a distant voice.
The Terrin turned, allowing Kirth to see the field beyond, where the judge thrust a comet ball high in the air.
“The skins sank the five spot! They WON!”
Drail grinned as Qwall gaped.
“It would seem,” Tinge rumbled softly, “Yute speaks her own mind.”
By the time Tryst rose to his feet and brushed the fine gray dust from his clothes, the other village leaders had gathered. He noted the Terrin solemnly stood close enough to hear - but not too close. Wary, he supposed.
Not surprising.
The mid-day heat beat on his back, reminding him of the desert more than the jungle. The rains seemed to have cleared the heavy moisture from the air, at least for the moment.
At the thought of the desert he glanced at Marra. She’d surprised him with her hasty appearance, after avoiding him for days. Now she strode at his side, earning a frown from Jason. The Defense Master probably expected her to fall back two strides, to allow Tryst to lead. Marra didn’t know that protocol.
And it was doubtful, he found himself smiling, that she would care if she did.
“FIVE SPOT!” shouted a distant voice. “The skins sank the five spot! They WON!”
Tryst smothered his laughter as the Terrin parted before them, fangs lengthening in that peculiar grin of theirs. As the last few withdrew to reveal Kirth and Tinge confronting the two priests, he understood their silence.
The air between the women of Agben and the men of Zaria crackled with tension. The High Priest was livid - but somehow Tinge’s controlled fury seemed more dangerous.
“It would seem,” she rumbled softly, “Yute speaks her own mind.”
“I will see you skinned….” the High Priest roared, and was silenced by Qwall’s abrupt gesture.
“We revere the Tower,” Qwall told him in a loud voice. A voice that carried across the Gathering crowd. “We revere Agben as well. But Agben did not attempt to murder one of us today.”
The surrounding Terrin nodded. Nervous they may be, but they agreed with Qwall’s words, and solidified behind him.
Marra moved to lift Drail’s arm, shaking her head. Tryst realized the gamesman held it oddly. And as she frowned up at the man, he saw the same exasperated look sisters give brothers. He’d just never noticed that before.
“I have read your scrolls,” Tinge said. “They were never meant to be hidden from the world, as the oldest of us well remember. Zaria’s place is to tend and protect, not to subvert and hide.”
“WOMAN!” the High Priest screeched, but could find nothing more to say. Tinge allowed him to flounder before responding. Tryst had never appreciated how astute she was until then.
“The ancient text describes the world in two races, warns against the tendency for war between them. It suggests - urges - that we are stronger together than apart.”
Head shaking in denial, the High Priest sputtered, “One race will die!”
“One race could die,” Tinge growled, “If the scrolls are not heeded.”
Marra, quiet little Marra who never spoke out of turn, saw it first. “Two races,” she gasped. “Not Skullan and Trumen…Terrin and Skin.”
The utter silence that followed proved the truth of her words.
“You see well, child,” Tinge nodded. “This division between your people never existed when the scrolls were writ. It was created.”
“How?” Tryst asked, somehow keeping his voice calm. “When?”
It was the second priest that answered. “Two generations back, we found a way to avert the prophecy by naming those on the desert land one thing, and those on the Great Continent another. We…encouraged the Great Continent to perceive itself as superior, and the desert dwellers to both believe and resent that idea.”
Tryst felt his belly ice over. It was too wild a notion - yet somehow it fit. “But the physical differences?”
“Early on we gave growth potions to your people. We no longer do that. It seemed that once the changes were begun, you skins managed to make
more of your own. We hoped you’d war on each other, and when it appeared otherwise, some of us chose to force more conflict.”
“You thought to busy us fighting each other?” Jason stared from one to the other. “But you’re stronger than us, in many ways. Were you so frightened?”
It was Tinge who answered him. “Terrin are physically stronger - but deeply suited to a simple life. Calm and predictable. Our males are cautious of each other; more so of outsiders. We’ve never united under any leader, despite Zaria’s attempts.”
“Even in a game of comet,” Marra’s eyes lit up. “The skins managed to win the day.”
A roar of laughter burst from Qwall’s lungs. “You did indeed,” he rumbled when he could speak.
9.
AS KIRTH HELD her skirts high to keep from treading on the hem, she felt the chill air swirl around her ankles. Reminding her of the last time she followed a priest down these steps, to find herself in a cell with the door swinging shut. If she were a fanciful woman, she might insist upon sitting in the warm sun while the matter was brought to her.
By the Great Goose, she was not a fanciful woman.
Still, when the priest lead her to another cell, holding the torch aloft to reveal the unyielding metal grid, a pang of fear shot through her veins.
And then she saw Rain.
The woman’s face pressed against the metal, eyes wild, the long hair she’d been so proud of now matted and dirty. Despite everything - lies, betrayal, even murder - Kirth felt pity.
“Have you come to gloat, old woman?” Rain spat. So she hadn’t quite lost all her backbone.
“I’ve come seeking answers,” Kirth said. The priest set the torch in a nearby bracket and withdrew into the dark.
“Why should I tell you anything?”
Kirth sighed. “Rain, we still have to decide what to do with you. King Bactor might well execute you for treason.”
She said nothing, but Kirth felt her stiffen. So that thought hadn’t occurred - in fact she still expected to be released. Arrogance was ever her downfall.
“I can make other choices. But they must be made soon.”
Rain’s mouth squeezed into a tight line. Whether holding back angry words or a hasty tale Kirth could only guess.
So she turned as if to leave.
“What would you know?” the younger woman whispered.
Her story emerged, prodded on by gentle questions. Exactly how much was fact and how much was fiction Kirth could guess. Still, she told a reasonable tale.
It seemed to begin on the woman’s first lone journey to the Dim Continent. Visiting the false Zaria Tower with Tinge, she pried into the scrolls while the Terrin was outside gathering herbs. These scrolls were blank, which lead to troubling questions.
And Pinter, hiding to keep an eye on her, caught her spying.
From there he tempted her with information, power. Her yearly pilgrimage became a furthering indoctrination. Pinter’s association with her advanced him to the Tower, and when he brought her to Bowag, the High Priest offered to spare Agben if she helped him.
Or so she said.
Kirth believed Rain’s true motivation was power. Feeling powerless as a young girl, she had ever sought it since.
“How involved was Britta?” she asked, when the woman had fallen silent. That silence held for three blinks of the sun.
And then, “I sent her three missives,” Rain muttered. “She answered the first by ordering me to lay the whole story before you. To the second, when I explained it was the only way to preserve Agben, she never answered.”
“And the third?”
Rain sniffed. “In the third I informed her that the Prince was caught and deep in sleep…and would be delivered to her in a matter of moons.”
“Why send him to the desert?”
“Bowag demanded him at the Black Tower; Britta said not to trust Zaria at all. I thought sending the sleeping man to her would answer well - she’d have no choice but to take him.”
“And Fenna?”
Rain frowned.
“We found the King,” Kirth told her softly, keeping her own anger in check. Had Rain thought she still had a bargaining chip?
“Fenna always jumped where Britta pointed. I hinted at the old woman’s involvement and she never questioned it.” The younger woman lowered her head, no doubt watching Kirth beneath her lashes. “So what will you do with me?”
“That’s not up to me. You committed treason against the Skullan Empire.” Kirth turned to leave.
“Agben must make this decision. The King and his little son need know nothing about it.”
Rain, Kirth decided, had no real concept of what she’d done. “I’m afraid Prince Tryst is both here and knows all. He does not view your actions as so…innocuous.”
The priest removed the torch from its holder. Kirth glimpsed Rain’s face, eyes wide, mouth open, before the dungeon shadows claimed her.
If Tryst held any lingering concerns about Terrin aggression, the speed at which the Gathering dispersed put them to rest.
By the second day only a handful of villages remained, packing gear and swapping stories. The night before had seen a generous flow of the intoxicating mawk, rendering loud jibes and banter, as if the entire Terrin population had heaved a collective sigh of relief. He’d seen Marra across the campfire, but failed to secure her for a private conversation.
He thought they’d talk instead during the long voyage home. The Dim Continent, however, would not allow that. “You passed through the Creesby gate - you must do so again. It causes…confusion otherwise.” He’d been told this by both Adeena and Qwall. It only bothered him when he learned Marra must return a different route.
Precisely what the route was, he did not know. But it started in the opposite direction from the Gathering field.
This morning, as the sun breeched the tree line, Qwall’s men rolled sleep-slings and stuffed provisions into travel sacks. Everywhere he looked, the remaining Terrin prepared to leave.
Pinter and Bowag returned, with Pinter leading the way. Bowag, now clad in white, moved solemnly at his heel, even keeping his head down when Pinter spoke.
“We wish you well on your journey, Prince Tryst of the Skins. May Yute always smile upon your path.”
“And yours,” Tryst inclined his head. He glanced at former High Priest, who never met his eyes.
“Before being accepted to priest,” Pinter said, “A male proves himself worthy by humbly - and nimbly - doing as commanded by those he would join. Teaching servitude so to serve Yute.”
Tryst stared at the former High Priest.
“Bowag will remain at this level to serve the Tower. To remind us that service must swallow ego. And what happens when ego swallows service.”
Tinge, Kirth, and Marra joined them. “And what of Rain?” Kirth asked.
“Rain will be surrendered to Tinge,” the priest said.
Tinge smiled. “Our Rain will benefit sharing this lesson of service.”
Tryst didn’t welcome this news. Rain had betrayed his people and his family; fetch and carrying seemed far too small a punishment. “Where is Rain?” he asked.
Something in his tone must have told of his thoughts.
“She remains in her cell,” Tinge replied. “To be freed, she must take the Promise Potion.”
“Promise…?”
“One swears the promise, drinks the entire bottle swiftly, and swears it again,” Tinge explained. “If that promise is ever broken, the potion turns to poison.”
He hoped to ask Marra about it later, but seeing her surprise, realized it was just as new to her.
“How long does the effect last?” Kirth frowned.
Tinge’s fangs lengthened. “We have only tested it for a century. There was no diminishing of effect in that span.”
The Tower Terrin left, and shortly thereafter, so did the rest. Tryst only had time to take Marra’s hand and smile reassuringly before Qwall and Jason pulled him one way as Kirth drew
her the other.
The soft smile she gave him in parting would have to sustain Tryst for a handful of moons.
The trek back to Creesby was bittersweet.
Drail and Adeena appeared close by the time they reached the gate. With his arm in a sling, she found many opportunities to help him. Yet when the time came to part, neither seemed to hold regret.
Of course, Tryst himself was preoccupied. The gatekeeper demanded two counts, with a third one performed by his companion. When Adeena asked for an explanation, he told her a lone skin had appeared days earlier, claiming to have been shipwrecked on the Dim Continent.
They’d locked the man away until all groups had returned and been properly counted. The man, it turned out, was Kratchett.
The gatekeepers turned him over to Jason.
Kratchett offered more information, about Lump and a cohort on the Flats of Beard - a Trumen named Snark.
“In Marra’s shop in San Cris,” Drail frowned. “Nasty guy - I punched him hard.”
“Not hard enough,” Kratchett told them. “He killed his own sister...I think she was Agben. Name of Britta.”
For Marra the journey home was half the time of the voyage to the Dim Continent. Something about the direction of currents and wind.
Another moon passed before Drail and Tryst arrived in Missea. Drail sent a missive to the school, telling her of a game that afternoon. Preparing the Birr Elixir, she went.
Their first full day back, yet Drail and the Hand of Victory not only played, but won. The first of several surprises.
“Now we travel the Great Continent,” Drail grinned. “We need only Marra, and Fallon’s replacement.”
The gamesman was smiling down at her, warmth and laughter in his eyes. Perhaps it was that, or perhaps watching him win against the Trumen just as he’d won against the Terrin that gave her the courage.
For she knew her own heart, and found the courage to must own it.
“Drail, forgive me,” Marra told him. “I need to continue my studies. May I brew you some elixir to take with you instead?”
His eyes glinted gold. Surprised, she thought, but not unhappy. “Forgive me, little Marra,” he touched her shoulder. “I forget you have your own life to live. We’ll come see you as soon as we return - and swap tales of our adventures for yours.”
